


Afternoon Interlude

by hawkewards



Category: Destiny (Video Games)
Genre: M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-12-18
Updated: 2020-12-18
Packaged: 2021-03-10 23:34:31
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,418
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/28145430
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/hawkewards/pseuds/hawkewards
Summary: Osiris's old house in the City has been repurposed. He discovers what befell the items he left behind: Ikora stowed them in Saint's home.
Relationships: Osiris/Saint-14 (Destiny)
Comments: 3
Kudos: 55





	Afternoon Interlude

**Author's Note:**

> osiris has hair and that is the hill i will die on  
> anyway. enjoy yall

Osiris stared up at his old house in the Last City. Banners of all classes flew draped from open windows. Newly born-again guardians milled around out front, chatting and cleaning weapons and practicing knife throws against a backdrop erected where a small garden used to be. Now, the garden existed on the right side of the house, beneath a new latticed gazebo covered in lush vines.

“When you left the City, your home became a beacon for your so-called “followers.” The Consensus believed it best to…repurpose the building.”

“I’m surprised the Speaker didn’t insist it be torn down,” Osiris said, and he turned his head to look at Ikora. She smiled a little.

“He did, at first,” she said, folding her hands neatly behind her back. “I…convinced him to turn it into a tenement for newly-resurrected guardians. I told him it would make you seem less a martyr that way.”

“Hm.” Osiris turned back to his once house and minutely worked his jaw. Ikora seemed to sense his unasked question.

“If you’re wondering about the things you left behind,” she said, “I had them moved someplace safe. Somewhere I knew no one would dare go looking for them.”

Osiris looked at her again, and she inclined her head toward the rest of the City.

“Would you like to know where?” she asked.

“Lead the way.”

They walked in silence through the streets. Civilians and guardians alike mingled at shopfronts and patios. Children shrieked with joy as they sprinted past, streamers tied to sticks trailing from their small hands. Osiris watched a young girl slam into a taller boy with a purple-painted shield made of cardboard, and both children wailed in delight.

“This way,” Ikora said, cutting down a quieter street, and Osiris knew where they were going.

Ikora stopped in front of Saint-14’s home, a small townhouse nestled at the end of a street full of civilians. Faded purple streamers hung from a flagpole off the rooftop. Newer streamers had been tied along the banister flanking the short front steps. A freshly pulled pile of weeds sat at the corner in a wheelbarrow, and newly tilled dirt lined the planter boxes beneath the front windows.

“I see Saint’s home didn’t suffer the same fate as mine,” Osiris said mildly.

“Saint,” Ikora said, “was never exiled.”

“Hm.”

They stood in silence for a moment, looking up at Saint’s home.

“For a time, I kept your things in my home,” Ikora said. “When Saint disappeared…well, I knew no one would search his home after the Speaker had it cordoned off.”

Osiris frowned beneath his hood. He supposed he wasn’t surprised to learn Saint’s home had gone untouched while his had been converted into a tenement. He was glad Ikora had had the foresight to rescue the few things he had left behind in anger and haste. He wondered if Saint had done anything with them. He’d been back for a few weeks already.

“Thank you, Ikora,” Osiris said.

“You’re welcome, Osiris.”

She nodded and headed back toward the City, and Osiris stood outside Saint’s home for a minute more before he ventured inside.

Overhead lights slowly warmed to life as he stepped inside. The main floor was mostly as he remembered it. The back a massive kitchen and dining area, the front a cozy sitting area around a stone fireplace. Osiris could remember when Saint had unveiled the kitchen, proud as ever. Osiris had asked why in the world he needed a kitchen so large when he didn’t _need_ to eat, and Saint had clapped him on the shoulder and said, “I am not planning to host feasts for only me, my friend.”

Against the nearest wall was a waist-high bookshelf lined with old tomes and artifacts. Osiris pulled down his hood, ran one hand through his hair as he picked up a bronze eagle in flight, its left wing severed and stand dented. Saint had found it during a patrol through Old Chicago, and its resemblance to Osiris’s hood had tickled him so much he’d brought it home and given it to Osiris. For a long time, it had sat on the mantle above Osiris’s fireplace.

He replaced the eagle and moved down the bookshelf. Several artifacts and statues from his old home sat dust-free on the top. On the shelves beneath, Osiris finally noticed, were most of his books and journals.

“I can’t believe Saint kept all your old junk,” Sagira said as she appeared and buzzed around the shelf looking at things.

“Junk?” Osiris asked dryly.

“Really,” Sagira deadpanned, hovering above an old bottle, its label long gone and cork half disintegrated. “What would you call this, Osiris?”

Osiris picked up the bottle and turned it over in his hands. It had once been filled with the most vile wine Osiris had ever tasted. Saint had found it deep below the surface of the Cosmodrome, in a long-ago forgotten cache in a bunker. He had insisted they try it together, citing that even if it killed them, they had their ghosts. Osiris had begrudgingly agreed to the tasting, and Saint implored him it be proper. They had congregated before Osiris’s warm fireplace with wine glasses, had toasted “possibly the worst wine we’ll ever taste,” and had each taken a drink. Osiris had thought he was truly going to die, while Saint was convinced his taste receptors would never function properly again.

“Surely it is not actually _that_ bad?” Saint had asked, and in two deep gulps he finished his glass and came up sputtering and coughing.

“Surely it is,” Osiris said, but he had also taken another sip out of morbid curiosity, only to regret it immediately. They had ceremoniously poured the rest of the wine down the sink while Saint gave a solemn eulogy to the worst wine in any and all worlds.

“It’s an old wine bottle,” Osiris said to Sagira, and he carefully replaced it on the shelf. Sagira’s points spun around her core in irritation.

“It’s junk,” she said flatly.

“To you, perhaps.”

“To anyone with eyes,” Sagira said, and she hovered down to inspect the books below. “Aw, nice of Ikora to save your not-so-lost-prophecies. And everything else, I guess. Even if it’s junk.”

“Sagira.”

“What?” She spun around his head. “It is.”

Osiris sighed a little and began to turn from the bookshelf, but a small box at the end caught his eye. He was on it in two quick strides, and he snatched it from the bookshelf and held it in his hands. An unremarkable metal box, bronze in color and adorned with simple gold filigree, it looked like something one might store jewelry or coins in. Osiris had used it for the former, and as he opened the lid he found the plush black velvet devoid of the simple silver ring it once held.

“Osiris?”

He tuned into Sagira finally as she invaded his vision.

“There you are,” she said, and she hovered back and looked down at the box. “What’s with the box?”

“You don’t remember?”

“Hm.” Sagira spun around the box a couple times. “Is this from one of the many times you asked for privacy? Because I did always respect that. Mostly. Usually.”

“I purchased this weeks before the Consensus deigned to exile me from the City,” Osiris said, turning the box over in his hands. “An artisan in the City handmade the boxes from reclaimed metal brought to her by guardians. She made the rings in a similar fashion.”

Sagira bobbed, considering.

“Right,” she said finally, spinning. “The ring you had made for Saint. It’s all coming back to me now. One of your rare moments of sentimentality.”

“I never had the opportunity to give it to him,” Osiris said, gently replacing the box on the shelf. He thought about those weeks leading up to his exile, about the Consensus and the Speaker in particular ignoring his warnings about the vex. He thought about Saint’s blind devotion to the Speaker, and how he had tried to reconcile things between his so-called Father and Osiris. He thought about how, after the Consensus’ decision, after he had told them to keep their judgment, that he would simply leave, how Saint had tried to convince him to stay. Osiris had said things he didn’t mean, called the Speaker all manner of names he _did_ mean and knew would hurt Saint, and then had called Saint a fool for following him and a bigger fool for thinking he would convince Osiris to stay.

Osiris rubbed his eyes and turned from the bookshelf. He stood in front of Saint’s fireplace and studied the few things on the mantle. Nothing he recognized. Perhaps gifts from the City’s civilians since Saint’s return.

Saint’s return. There had been a few days Osiris had awoken believing it had been a dream, had opened his eyes to the same regret he’d had since learning of Saint’s fate. Then he would remember, abruptly, that Saint was alive.

They hadn’t spoken much in the weeks Saint had been back; neither had had the time. Osiris was busy dealing with the Sundial, and Saint was busy trying to catch up on all he had missed in the years he’d been gone. They’d sent a few messages back and forth, simple “How are yous” and “We’ll meet soons” and nothing else. But now, with the Sundial shut down for good and Osiris with little to occupy his time until his research into the Darkness bore substantial fruit, there were few excuses for them not to meet up. The only excuse Osiris had was that he didn’t know what to say.

He sighed and turned from the fireplace.

“Osiris?” Sagira asked, and he waved her off.

“I’m fine,” he said. “We should go.”

The front door opened before he could reach for it, and Osiris blinked up at Saint in mute surprise.

“Ah!” Saint was sans helmet and wore a simple lavender tunic in lieu of his typical armor. He was carrying a large paper sack with one arm and a bag of birdseed over his other shoulder. “Ikora told me you might be here. I’m glad I did not miss you.”

“We were just --”

“Waiting for you to get back!” Sagira interrupted cheerfully, and she spun above Saint’s paper sack and twirled. “What’d you get? Something good?”

“Ah, just some necessities,” Saint said, coming inside. He hefted the birdseed onto his dining table. “And, of course -- for my birds.”

Osiris seriously considered leaving, and Sagira seemed to sense his apprehension to stay and spun forward to join Saint in the kitchen.

“Ooh!” she said as Saint began emptying his groceries onto the counter. Osiris sighed and turned away from the door. “Osiris, he got your favorite tea!”

“It is quite good. With enough sugar, that is.” Saint laughed. He grabbed the kettle from the stove. “Would you like some?”

Osiris leaned against the counter and folded his arms across his chest.

“We don’t have much time to stay, I’m afraid,” he said. Saint said, “Bah,” and filled the kettle with water.

“Enough time for tea, I’m sure,” he said.

Saint put on the kettle and put away the rest of his groceries and Osiris watched him, considering the entire time what to say. Saint folded his paper sack and tucked it away with the rest.

“Are you hungry?” he asked Osiris.

Osiris shook his head. Saint said, “Alright,” and pulled down two mugs and set them near the stove. Osiris glanced toward the shelf of his things.

“Ikora informed me she…sequestered my things here after the Consensus requisitioned my home,” he said.

“Yes.” Saint looked at the shelf too. He worked his jaw a little. “Did you…want them back?”

“Skies, no,” Osiris said, turning to Saint. “Where would I put them? My ship? No.” He shook his head a little, and his gaze hung on the small metal box at the end of the shelf. “No, they’re far safer with you.”

Saint said that was probably true, and he scooped some tea into his teapot and then a lot of sugar into his own mug. He glanced at Osiris, who pursed his lips, lost in thought.

“Osiris?” he asked.

“That metal box,” Osiris said. He looked at Saint. “It used to have a ring in it.”

“Ah.” Saint stepped toward Osiris. He tugged a necklace out from beneath his tunic, let the ring sit on his palm. “It’s here.”

Osiris stared at it for a long moment. Saint quietly cleared his throat.

“Do you want it back?” he asked. Osiris closed his eyes a moment and shook his head. He closed Saint’s hand around the ring.

“I always meant to give it to you,” he said quietly, holding Saint’s fist closed with both hands. “I just never found the opportunity before I left the City. Or, perhaps…I simply never found the courage. When I left--”

“Osiris,” Saint said, and Osiris squeezed his hand.

“Please,” he said. He took a deep breath. “When I left, I said a great many things I didn’t mean. A great many things I regret. I’m not asking for your forgiveness, Saint. I only want you to know I’m sorry. I’m sorry for what I said and I’m…” Osiris closed his eyes a moment, and his voice fell. “I’m sorry I couldn’t find you.”

“Bah.”

Saint pulled Osiris close and pressed his face against his hair.

“I know you were not asking for my forgiveness, but you have it,” Saint said. “You will always have it. My forgiveness. My love. My respect. All of these things and more are yours."

“I’m not sure I deserve them,” Osiris mumbled into Saint’s chest.

“You do,” Saint said. “Osiris, for as long as I have known you, you have burdened yourself with guilt for things not your fault. So, please. Just this once -- believe you deserve this.”

They stood like that for a while, Osiris with his face pressed against Saint’s chest, and Saint with his chin resting on top of Osiris’s head, until the kettle finally began to wail. Saint quietly said, “Bah,” and without releasing Osiris leaned back and moved the kettle and switched off the burner.

“Well?” he asked, and he cradled Osiris’s face in his hands. “Are you believing yet?”

Osiris scoffed a little. He looked at the silver ring around Saint’s neck.

“I’ll get there,” he said. Saint pressed their foreheads together.

“From you, that is enough.”


End file.
